


kiss like a supernova

by Noblebutch (kamrynwhowanders)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Caretaking, Cunnilingus, Enthusiastic Consent, Gentleness, Hurt/Comfort, Masturbation, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Religion Kink, deeply eldritch and transcendent gods, existential crisis brought on by eldritch gods?, fucking a god, i don't know how to tag this uh, religious kink, the tenderness lads... there's a lot of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:08:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23957410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kamrynwhowanders/pseuds/Noblebutch
Summary: Anya went through a hell she doesn't like to think about, and the only solace were her dreams of a god made of tenderness and sunlight who cradled her through the nights. Now she's out, and she has an apartment and a job, and those dreams are gone. She keeps thinking she sees her dream-god, though, out of the corner of her eye, and, well. She thinks about it a lot. Sometimes in ways which are, to put it politely, extremely blasphemous.If you want a god hard enough, it just might hear you.
Relationships: original female character/original deity
Comments: 2
Kudos: 25





	kiss like a supernova

**Author's Note:**

> im lowkey pagan and so are many of my friends and we all agreed that we couldn't find religion kink/godfucking the way we WANTED it, so I decided to write it myself.

It’s not a great apartment, but the door locks, and Anya has the only key to it. There’s not much in it - a mattress on the floor, a table, a chair, a few dishes. Not much food in the cupboards, not much money in the bank. It’s dark. Kinda dingy. It’s just a place to sleep, for now. Work and eat and sleep and sit alone in the dim light and watch endless hours of YouTube and not think about anything she shouldn’t. It’s not a great life, but it’s hers. Hers alone. It isn’t a bad life, either. Anya would be doing fine, if it wasn’t for the dreams. 

Back when she’d been - back when they had - well. 

Before the apartment, she’d dreamed every night about some sunlit place where she closed her eyes and pressed her cheek into buzzing bright-hot flesh that warmed instead of burning her, down to the bones like a yawn in a sunbeam. As long as Anya kept her eyes shut she could stay there, feel static silk feathers wrap around her shoulders and hear the musical sigh of three mouths breathing in harmony, spiced incense air gusting around her. A strange, melodic heartbeat printing harmonies into her skin, _you are safe,_ and _you are loved._

Those dreams are gone, now. She dreams of nothing, or of things that wake her up screaming. It’s a fair price to pay, Anya supposes. Trade in the bliss and the horror both and end up with this bearable thing that she gets to choose for herself. It’s fine. Everything is fine, and if she cries, sometimes, alone under a blanket that isn’t soft or warm or alive enough, then that’s an understandable reaction to her change in circumstances. A bit of loneliness is only to be expected. She’ll get used to it. 

Surely, she’ll get used to it. Any day now.

Anya’s walking home from a shift that ended at one in the morning, a tight knot of fear and the dull resignation of another closing shift tomorrow in her stomach, her keys between her knuckles. Then between one step and the next there’s warmth dawning between her shoulder blades, that indolent, deep warmth that she knows so intimately. Psychosomatic, probably, just tricking herself into feeling safe, but she can’t help the way the tension of her shoulders loosens, the way her fear ebbs. It feels good. 

Another day she’s getting shouted down by a manager she can’t raise her voice against in return without risking everything she’s carved out of a nothing life, and she’s so angry and so alone, and then suddenly the shouting goes muffled and distant, and instead, intimate in Anya’s ears, is a whisper like bells, speaking music in a tune she does not recognize yet knows with every fiber of her being. It’s almost a caress, barely audible. She could be imagining it, and it’s only the swoop of her stomach that tells her she isn’t. 

“What are you smiling about?” 

“Nothing,” Anya says, and tucks the smile away inside herself, a fortification. 

And another day she’s lying alone in bed on a late morning, eyes half-shut and the blinds open, sunlight falling in slats across her stomach, and it seems brighter than it should be. The sun is lighting up the whole room, near-blinding, and it seems to reach farther than it should through the small, cramped window. Everything is limned in gold, and Anya holds up a hand, lets the sunlight glow between her fingers, turning her square, stubby, callused hand almost beautiful. She feels like a work of art, in this sacred light she knows from dreams and nowhere else. A gift.

It keeps happening. The phantom brush of feathers across her cheek as she’s falling asleep, the glimpse of something bright and beautiful reflected in the bathroom mirror, gone as soon as she looks up. It can’t be just her imagination, can it? But if it is... 

She does not draw attention to it. Better for it to exist in the liminal space between reality and unreality than to be proven false. It’s an effort to maintain the boundary in her mind of not-quite-believing, of refusing to hope.

She doesn’t mean for her mind to drift to the sunlit dream-god that afternoon, as she’s sprawled in bed, rubbing idle circles on her clit. Just some free-association on a day off work, her mind at ease for once, feeling good, feeling safe enough to be this vulnerable. It’s just Anya’s brain thinking of other things that make her feel safe and good, but there isn’t really an explanation for the way her breath catches, how she turns onto her side and shivers at the thought of the god, hand quickening between her legs. 

When the ethereal warmth grows at her back, and the room gets subtly brighter, she squeezes her eyes shut against it and imagines as hard as she can. The smell of incense, yes, and cardamom and ozone. The sound of a heartbeat like chimes, and the musical hum of inhuman breath. Its skin so soft, frictionless like silk, and yet humming with the power just barely contained within its form. She imagines, panting with want, though the dream-god has always seemed wholly apart from sex. 

A warm, buzzing-satin touch runs down her arm, and feathers trail over her shoulders, across her stomach. Anya, shocked, opens her eyes and sees feathers cross her vision. She turns over, trembling, and in an awful-blessed lurch, sees the face of a god. Everything clicks into undeniable, crystalline reality, and she is frozen, hands still foolishly touching herself, though it feels like blasphemy. 

“Be not afraid,” says the god, and light drips from its lips with every word, viscous as honey, pooling at the corners of its mouth and staining rivulets down its ink black skin. Feathered wings of woven sun sprout from the sides of its head, covering where its eyes should be, but it looks at her, eyeless, nonetheless, a gaze so intense it prickles on her skin. She knows what it feels like to be afraid, and she is the farthest thing from it, only awed and small and ashamed. 

When the god kisses her, she tastes light. Bright sungold, indescribable, all distilled power and heady heat. Nothing she’s ever tasted before, nothing a mortal was meant to taste, and she opens her mouth for it with a desperate gasp, trying to take that light inside her. The god responds with inexorable passion, presses her down into the bed, feathered wings framing her body. They wrap around her, a tent of intimate iridescence, so soft that the brush of them against her neck, her bare sides, her thighs, makes her shiver. 

“Please,” Anya murmurs, into the god’s delicate mouth. She doesn’t know what she’s asking for, but she wants it nonetheless. Needs it, with all of the pent up hunger of barely getting by. She feels so good. Safe and loved, and the touch of the god on her skin so unearthly wonderful that it feels like it shouldn’t be allowed. 

The god’s hands stroke blooming lines of heat up Anya’s stomach, tracing designs, and it whispers and sighs into her mouth in a language that she understands, though she doesn’t know it. It calls her _beautiful._ It calls her _best beloved_ , _my chosen,_ _sun of my heart,_ and a dozen other things which mean mostly _loved, loved, you are so loved._

The humming electricity of the god’s presence sinks into her skin, rattles her bones and fills her. She arches into every touch, feathers and hands and the brush of phantom limbs she cannot see except in glowing trails they leave behind when she opens her eyes, sucking in breath from the intimate space between them. 

Anya’s breathing in the god’s shining breath, but searing lips kiss at her hipbones, and she breaks away for a moment to glance down, surprised. She cannot make sense of what she sees, a disorienting doubled mirror of the god. It’s dizzying. The god is above her and below her and yet there is only one of it. If she focuses hard enough on the god between her legs then the one above her fades into indistinct chiaroscuro, dappled light and shadow, but its lips and hands are still scorching and real, and when its hands or mouth make her gasp, draw her attention back to it, the god between her legs is still there but not-there. The space behind her eyes aches deep, awash in an existential trembling, and she shuts her eyes tight, merely arching her hips up as the god catalogs the bones of her thighs in meticulous detail. 

Its touch, now, is scouring, a heated blade drawn across her skin but parting soul instead of flesh, fissures for the sacred to seep in, no blood shed. It is pain like nothing she’s ever felt, but it doesn’t hurt. Anya has no words for the feeling, but it is good. Everywhere the god has touched, she has come pulsing to life. 

It fastens its mouth over her inner thigh, and she muffles a cry, legs parted and beckoning, but her hips jerking like she wants to pull away. It is so much, it is too much, and she wants more. She wants to reach down to touch, but she is pinned under the god, helpless and open. 

“God,” she says, wrecked and shaking, and the god says _yes, yes,_ with many mouths. She does not have the words to express her vast and nameless terror, her wanting, and so she just tips her head back and pants, wide eyes fixed on the dingy, peeling paint of her bedroom ceiling, trying to come back to herself, unable to learn the way. The god’s touch gentles, the warm lap of dry water against her aching parts, soothing. _Be not afraid,_ the god says, again, and feathers caress her, hands, cradling her instead of imprisoning her, and she leans up to bury her face in its chest, clenching her fists in its feathers. She breathes deep. The god’s skin smells like a cathedral. She looks over the curve of its shoulder at dust motes dancing in the sunlight it casts in shimmering ripples on her walls. It makes her apartment look beautiful. A holy place. Earthly and sacred all at once, and she fits back into her bones by degrees. 

When Anya slowly lies back down, she finds herself cradled by feathers, swaddled in divine softness. She is more of herself now, more rooted in her flesh, but she still has those ragged rents letting light inside her. It feels like she has been thirsty since she was born and now she is drinking her fill of cold honeyed water out of the cup of her hands. Some unnameable yearning is being whetted and sated all at once. Anya breathes in deep, fills the hollow space in her ribcage with clean air and godlight. She whispers, “Please.”

The god sets its mouth between her legs. She’s wet already, aching for it, and it jolts her like a lightning bolt, Lichtenberg figures of white-hot pleasure running up her belly, her spine. It settles, after a moment, the static white noise of her brain resolving into the sensation of a tongue dragging over her, long-fingered hands curled around her hips and some other bodiless mouth kissing at her throat. It bites clean into her jugular without teeth, only the snap of power and the edge of some bladed infinity, and she cries out a wordless hallelujah as its tongue moves against her. It draws sinuous runes with its mouth, circling her clit, sharp lines down and across and dipping inside. A primer in a sacred alphabet written between her folds, each letter molten with pleasure, and her thighs quake, feet braced against her bedsheets. 

Anya could die like this, breath shuddering in and out in involuntary gasps and moans, coming apart by degrees with her clit enveloped by a god’s implacable mouth. She has never felt anything better than this, not once in her life of grinding rough and quiet against her palm in the dark, wringing cheap orgasms out of her fantasies. She’s never had anyone eat her out before, thinks dimly that she’s ruined for it forever, will always be disappointed by a tongue made of flesh instead of molten velvet and the divine. The god has claimed her utterly, marked her as its own. She will always be god-wanting and hungry. 

_Mine,_ the god agrees, the word resonating in her bones like a bass note through a speaker turned up too high, and she gasps out a cracked “Yes,” and comes on the god’s tongue. 

It feels like a surrender, like it lasts an eternity, but perhaps that is just because the god’s mouth does not leave her, prolonging her shuddering fall with every movement, taking every ounce of ecstasy in its teeth and swallowing. It burns her, almost agonizing but still intensely hedonistic. She can hear her breath dragging in and out of her chest, rough and guttural, and she reaches down to touch the god’s head but her hands seem to pass through it, even as the pressure of its tongue and the pressure of its body against her is entirely solid and real. 

Anya closes her eyes, utterly overcome, the world seeming to explode in white hot intensity as every nerve screams-

and then she opens her eyes and she is alone in her bed, shaking, untouched. She hauls in a breath, then another, willing her heartbeat to slow. She feels hollowed out, oversensitized, like she’s made of blown glass containing only a god’s breath, warmth tingling on the surface of her skin. The sun is low, red-gold light through her window onto her tangled sheets, and she can smell the incense. Dreamlike, she runs her hand down her chest, and feels her skin prickle. It’s not until she looks down that she sees the six-fingered handprints seared into her hipbones, shimmering faintly with gold. Something to carry with her, under her clothes. If this was a one-time thing, a once-in-a-lifetime thing, then it will have been worth it. She is so unspeakably grateful for it, for the uncomplicated pleasure and the warmth and the feeling of being so loved that still lingers with every heartbeat. She cannot help but hope, however, that it is not just a once-in-a-lifetime thing. 

For the first time in her life, Anya, naked and breathless, rises to her knees to pray. 


End file.
